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I'm not good at this.I say as I follow you, half a street away, through the heavy canopy of urban umbrellas. I say as I stare, eyes avoidant beneath spiked lashes, at your shoes plodding through December puddles. I say as I breathe, sighs misted and cloudy, over the crowds gathered between us. I say as I long, thoughts breathy and shallow, for the sound of your voice, hot and sticky, against my ears.
I'm not good at this.
I say as I hear the shuffle of your soles, grim and leaden, over inverted Christmas lights. I say as I smell, humid aid rushing up my nostrils, the scent of the space between your pulse and collarbone over the musk of pollution. I say as I taste, tongue grinding over the roof of my mouth, salt tears laced atop acidic rain. I say as I feel, chest expanding painfully, the quickening strum of my heart against my ribs.
I'm not good at this.
I say as I run through faceless businessmen to your glowing image, all wrapped in cotton and down under the street lamps. I say as I reach, fingers slipping and desperate, for your soft palms, clutching shimmering gifts wrapped in foil. I say as I grasp, knuckles white and trembling, your shoulders in a severe embrace, my sobs rasping over your exposed skin.
I'm not good at this.
I say as I apologize into the backs of your ears, whispers faint like ghosts. I say as I ask, words tangled and muddy, for your gentle-smooth affections.
I'm not good at this.
I say as I realize.
Realize that.
All I really need is my.
Love.
Want.
Need.
For you.
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